


The Islander

by eticatka



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Family, Gen, Heartbreak, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Music, Pining, Post-Troubled Blood, Songfic, St. Mawes (Cormoran Strike), thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28556682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eticatka/pseuds/eticatka
Summary: Strike travels to St. Mawes to help Ted with some mysterious task, and it makes him think of many, many things.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike, Ted Nancarrow & Cormoran Strike
Comments: 75
Kudos: 61





	1. Emergency time off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CagedNightingale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CagedNightingale/gifts).



> To celebrate 5 years of my obsession with Strike series, I'm starting to post the fic that has been building up in my head for quite some time. There's a song that gives me stongest Uncle Ted vibes, and @CagedNightingale agreed with me about it - ['The Islander' by Nightwish.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--tFFz44zvc) I also used its lyrics in the epigraphs to the chapters. I planned it as something short and angsty, but, judging by my outline, it will be a bit longer and lighter.  
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> update January 8: it's long and angsty!

**Chapter 1. Emergency time off**

_An old man by a seashore  
At the end of day  
Gazes the horizon  
With seawinds in his face  
Tempest-tossed island  
Seasons all the same  
Anchorage unpainted  
And a ship without a name_

**Nightwish, ‘The Islander’**

“Cormoran, could you come over here for a bit?” Robin called from the outer office. “Pat and I are discussing the rota for the next month, perhaps you have any special preferences?”

Usually, he didn’t, but Robin kept asking. This time, however, wasn’t really usual.

“Actually, yes, but, er, not that kind of a preference. Can we arrange an emergency time off for me, Pat?” Strike tried to sound as amiable as he could, too afraid to destroy the fragile comradeship that had emerged between him and Pat recently.

“That wouldn’t be so easy,” croaked Pat. “D’you see this spreadsheet? I don’t think we’ll manage this shitload without you.”

Strike sighed. He knew she was right. He knew the agency juggled three adultery cases, one ‘kid-in-a-bad-company’ case and one ‘long-lost-sibling’ case. He knew the fact that he was one of the bosses didn’t change anything. And yet…

“Is it really urgent, Mr. Strike?”

“Yes, I’m afraid. It’s my uncle Ted. He’s in Cornwall.”

Robin gasped.

“No, no, he’s okay!” Strike reassured her hastily. “He sounded livelier than ever when he called me yesterday, which makes me think he’s got something on his mind. He asked me to come as soon as possible, but refused to tell me what’s the matter.”

Pat puffed on her e-cig and exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke.

“How long do you need, then?”

*

They decided Strike would take the weekend off, plus Thursday, Friday and Monday. He hoped five days would suffice, although deep inside he couldn’t help doubting it. Having packed his holdall and stacked himself on biscuits, Strike boarded the train at Paddington and sank into his thoughts.

 _I’ve got a job for you_. Ted’s words rang in his ears. His uncle, the closest to a father-figure he ever had, couldn’t have been more ominous. It sounded like a promise of an investigation, but Ted had sworn it wasn’t about crime, adultery, or mysterious disappearances. _To the contrary, my boy. You’ll see yourself when you get here_.

Perhaps, a thought occurred to Strike, the old man was just feeling lonely? After Joan’s passing, he cut down his social interactions to a minimum, except for a couple of old acquaintances. His main entertainment, rumour had it, was to sail his Jowanet around the peninsula and back. This was his means of communicating with Joan. So maybe this was it?

 _You’ll see yourself when you get here._ In any case, it sounded like something pleasant. As much as he loved London, his job and (although he still fought the thought) his business partner, a trip to St. Mawes could be a welcome change in his routine. The closer he got to his destination, the more he was looking forward to it.


	2. Home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike learns about Ted's plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Dave Polworth alert! He just jumped into this fic without really asking my permission, so all I can do is to warn you about his language. Well, it could've been worse.
> 
> Also, be prepared for some heartbreak before it all clears up. I'm so sorry.

**Chapter 2. Home.**

_Sea without a shore for the banished one unheard  
He lightens the beacon, light at the end of world  
Showing the way lighting hope in their hearts  
The ones on their travels homeward from afar_

_This is for long-forgotten  
Light at the end of the world  
Horizon crying  
The tears he left behind long ago_

**Nighwish, ‘The Islander’**

Strike’s oldest mate Dave Polworth met him at the station, to save him the trouble of having to change buses and walk long distances. During the ride, Polworth recounted his recent family visit to London in great detail, being sure it was just as remarkable for Strike as it was for him.

“And that Robin of yours,” he was saying. “Believe me, I’m a married man, and I’ve never – but fuck me, what tits!”

Strike winced. The last thing he wanted to discuss were his partner’s gorgeous curves, not because they refused to leave his dreams for quite a long now, but because it was not Dave Polworth’s bloody business.

“She’s not ‘of mine’, and you’d better pay attention to the tits you have at home.”

“Diddy’s got sensitive! Wait, are you–”

“How’s Ted?” Strike interrupted him. “Playing a hermit, is he?”

Polworth sighed.

“Not sure if “a hermit” is the word, but he’s definitely not the same, old Ted. I pop up to him now and then, and he’s always hospitable and all that, but there’s something in his eyes – Fuck. I don’t know how to describe it. You’ll see what I mean.”

*

The moment Strike saw his Uncle Ted, the older version of himself, he knew he was at home. He recognised immediately this homecoming feeling he got only here, at Ted and Joan’s. It was his first visit after Joan’s death, however, and he couldn’t help wondering if it would somehow feel different. For now, it was almost the same. He went to his usual room to unpack and change, and everything there was familiar and welcoming. He went down to the kitchen that hadn’t changed at all since he last saw it, and Ted was there, hustling with a kettle and cutting an apple pie that he had, most certainly, baked himself. Everything around seemed to say “We’re okay. Holding on so far. Carrying on.”

But there was that painful feeling that Joan would enter the kitchen any moment, and, at the same time, that something permanent was gone, also permanently. The hollow space she left couldn’t be refilled again.

As Strike and Ted sat for tea, Strike saw what Dave Polworth was trying and failed to convey. Something was gone from Ted’s eyes. He was lively and optimistic as usual, he chatted all the way, but his eyes looked as if the lights had been turned off in an abandoned house. Strike had always perceived his St. Mawes family, Ted in particular, as his island of stability, as a lighthouse that guided him whenever he lost his way. Now it seemed that some of this light had gone out forever.

They talked for long hours, until Strike had felt it was the right time to try and find out the real purpose for him to be in Cornwall. Upon hearing his question, Ted looked away, and Strike thought he saw a shadow of an unshed tear in the corner of his uncle’s eye.

“I’ve started going through the things in the house recently,” he said. “My old stuff. Joanie’s. Your mother’s. Boxes upon boxes upon bags upon parcels, everything you can imagine. There’s so much I’m not sure I’ll manage on my own.”

“So you just need a hand?” Strike smiled warmly. He was afraid the “job” would be much harder. “You should’ve called Robin, though. She’s a fan of all this decluttering stuff, Mary Kondo system and all that. I’m not such an expert.”

He didn’t really know why he had to bring up Robin now. It just came naturally, in this moment of deepest closeness between the uncle and the nephew.

“There’s a lot of things,” Ted went on, “that will be a stone on your neck after – after I’m gone. I don’t want you to unload it all by yourself and make decisions you won’t be able to make. Why make you go through that? Let’s do it together, now, while I’m still here.”

Strike couldn’t help thinking that Ted was being just as thoughtful as Joan was, planning her own funeral.

“This will take some time, but at least you’ll have somebody to ask if you should throw something away or put it in a safe. You’re in, son?”

And this last word decided it all for Strike.

“Of course I am, Ted,” he answered, making sure his uncle’s name sounded as close to “Dad” as it could.


	3. The Great Love.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike and Ted start getting through the old things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, there's heartbreak again. Bear with me just a little.

**Chapter 3. The Great Love.**

_The albatross is flying  
Making him daydream  
The time before he became  
One of the world’s unseen  
Princess in the tower  
Children in the fields  
Life gave him it all:  
An island of the universe_

**Nighwish, ‘The Islander’**

The wooden staircase to Ted’s attic was steep and narrow, so Strike had to climb it using mostly the power of his arms, trying to put minimum pressure on his bad leg. Since the main task was to sort things and not to get rid of them right away, Ted suggested that they stay in the attic rather than go back and forth. They freed up a large space on the floor by the wall and a few shelves in a wooden shelving unit Ted made himself decades ago, and got down to business.

As they went through the countless boxes, large plastic bags and drawers, several piles began to form: things for throwing away (those were to be sorted again later and either burnt in the backyard or recycled), things they were giving away for charity (intact clothes, crockery and cutlery, and, after some consideration, the toys that once were unmistakably Strike’s or Lucy’s), and things that Strike decided he’d bring back to London (mostly photo albums). Now and then they would laugh over an item from Strike’s childhood, or Ted would recall an anecdote from his army years whenever they came across something from that period. Once in a while, however, Ted’s face grew dark and solemn, and Strike knew without words that whatever his uncle had just found reminded him of Joan, perhaps, of their first years together. This evidence of undying, all-encompassing love that had lasted for more than fifty years reminded him inevitably that he had never got close to anything like that.

With great love comes great danger, he thought. The danger to be left alone, like Ted, with unbearable memories and endless grief. Or, even worse, to leave _her_ behind, forever broken. Was it worth it? “They lived happily ever after and died on the same day” didn’t work even for the best people he knew, his aunt and uncle. Would it work for him and…?

The image came to his mind, so vivid it was insufferable: him and Jack, up in the attic, going through the same piles of memories. A deflated donkey balloon. A small opal necklace. A green dress…

_Fuck._

“Look at this, son,” Ted’s voice interrupted his reverie. He was holding a scarlet beret, a part of his old uniform. “Is it yours or mine?”

“Must be yours,” Strike replied. “I think mine’s in London – if it survived at all.”

“I want to be buried in it,” said Ted. “Can I rely on you?”

“Honestly, I’m in no rush to bury you,” Strike managed to chuckle, fighting a lump in his throat. “But if you insist –”

“Thank you.”

Strike suddenly felt as though there was no air in the attic, although it was quite spacious.

“Fancy a walk? Some fresh air?” he offered, desperate to get away at least for an hour or two. Thankfully, Ted nodded with enthusiasm.

*

As they walked silently along the beach, Strike observed his uncle, who seemed to be lost in thought, looking at the sea, the horizon, the crying seagulls. They were at the cemetery, Strike reminded himself. Any body of water in the world was one.

Ted’s life had been whole. He almost had it all: Joan loved him until her final breath; although they had no children of their own, they found them in Strike and Lucy; he used to have a meaningful job and was loved by the people of St. Mawes. Could it be that he considered his mission on this earth complete? Was that the reason why he decided to prepare for his departure?

 _Bollocks._ Detective or not, Strike couldn’t let himself inside Ted’s brain. It was nothing but his imagination, and the only thing he could do was just to be a better nephew from now on.

His thoughts continued drifting and arrived, as they usually did, to Robin. The morning spent in Ted’s attic showed him what it was like to love someone so much as if life itself equaled to that person. His revelation ensured him that his love for Robin was precisely this kind of love. Even now, he couldn’t imagine his life without her. Losing her would be agony if they had lived fifty years together.

There were only two ways. He could either choose fighting his own feelings, thus protecting himself from this potential nightmare, or go for it, with everything he had, and secure at least fifty happy years together.


	4. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected discovery becomes a turning point for Strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It ended up being quite lengthy, but I wanted to squeeze it all in one chapter! I hope I've made up for all the heartbreak. There's some heartbreak in the first half of the chapter, though.
> 
> I also decided to add an epigraph from another Nightwish song, [here it is](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5V7PKv493Ic).

**Chapter 4. Revelation.**

_Now his love`s a memory  
A ghost in the fog  
He sets the sails one last time  
Saying farewell to the world  
Anchor to the water  
Seabed far below  
Grass still in his feet  
And a smile beneath his brow_

**Nighwish, ‘The Islander’**

_Kiss while your lips are still red_

_…_

_Love while the night still hides the withering dawn_

**Nighwish, ‘While Your Lips Are Still Red’**

By Saturday, they had finished sorting everything in the attic. The garbage pile, the largest of all, was removed first; then Strike took the charity bags to the St. Mawes Church. It was more than eight months till the opening of their next annual charity shop, but Strike was sure they would take proper care of everything he brought. Finally, Strike contemplated the pile that he was going to take home. There were three enormous photo albums, four boxes with letters, envelopes with photos of all sizes, and several books. There was no change he could fit it all in his holdall, and all suitable bags or suitcases he could borrow went to charity.

Just as he was trying to google the closest car hire, Ted knocked on his door.

“Have I told you it’s not all?” he asked with a somewhat embarrassed smile. Strike shook his head. “Right, it’s something I’ve been putting away myself for so long. There’s Joanie’s chest of drawers. I didn’t dare to come near it, but since you’re already here – yes, I know it’s almost sacred, but it won’t cease to be sacred when you have to do it on your own.”

Strike pocketed his phone.

“She would want us to do it, wouldn’t she, Ted?”

“I think so. I asked her in the morning, and she said yes.”

Any outside observer would conclude that the old man was out of his mind, but Strike knew it meant that Ted sailed Jowanet in the morning to feel closer to his late wife.

*

Joan’s chest of drawers was neat, not over-stuffed and well-organised. Those of her belongings that did not have an expiry date formed yet another charity bag. Finally, Ted retrieved a small velvety box from the bottom drawer’s far corner. He froze, looking at the box, and tears welled up in his eyes.

“What is it?” Strike asked softly. He knew it should have been Ted’s present to Joan, but wasn’t sure of its significance. Ted opened the box, not saying a word, and Strike saw a very exquisite pair of gold earrings with small emeralds.

“It was my wedding present to Joanie,” Ted managed. “They were her special earrings. She wore them every Christmas and Easter until –” He broke off and sobbed. Strike pulled him into a hug.

He remembered Aunt Joan putting on those earrings whenever he visited Cornwall for Christmas. Since he didn’t come there much on other occasions, the earrings were an inseparable part of Joan’s image, as if she was born with them. Now, as they lay orphaned in their small box, they looked cold and alien. It was Joan who made the earrings look more beautiful, not the other way round.

“Would your Robin like them?” Ted asked suddenly. “I’m not throwing them away, I don’t want to sell them, and there’s also little sense in keeping them. I’d like to give them to your girl. Joanie would be happy.”

“She’s –” _Not mine_ , Strike was going to answer, but the words froze in his mouth. Wasn’t she, ringing him every evening, telling him about the agency, asking how the ‘big Ted decluttering’ is going on, reassuring him that he was doing the right thing? Indeed, they hadn’t moved on much since her 30th birthday last month, as they were too busy with the cases and, probably, still too reluctant to make the first step. But although he was still processing the revelation he had over the last few days, a new kind of certainty began to form in his mind.

If something’s sure to end at some point, it doesn’t mean it’s not worth to begin. Even if the great love disappears, becomes a painful – or a blissful – memory, it doesn’t mean it won’t be preceded by many years of happiness.

_I’ll be forty tomorrow. If not now, then fucking when?_

“How about I give you her number, and you ask her yourself?” Strike heard himself saying.

*

On the next morning, Strike woke up to a dozen of birthday congratulations on his phone and to a delicious smell of a home-made apple pie. He heard voices from the kitchen and assumed that Nancy, Ted’s neighbour from across the street and one of his few social contacts, came for a Sunday morning coffee. He attached his prosthesis, got dressed and went to the kitchen, hoping to have a smoke before breakfast.

“Good morning, birthday boy!” Ted exclaimed even before Strike entered the kitchen. “Robin and I have already tasted a bit of your pie, and it’s delicious, even if I say so myself.”

Strike wasn’t sure he registered the second half of the sentence, because all he could see was the beaming face of his partner, in a frame of strawberry-blond hair, her eyes locked with his.

“Happy birthday, Strike,” she said. “Ted’s not lying, it’s the best pie I ever tasted.”

Strike approached her in two steps and pulled her up in the tightest hug he could manage. He kissed her forehead, both cheeks, the top of her head, not caring that Ted was looking at them with an amused smile on his face. He felt her returning the hug, felt the smell of Narciso in his nostrils. _I’m not letting her go. Never._

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m doing here or how did I get here?” Robin asked, finally freeing herself from his embrace. Strike lowered himself in the nearest chair, and she followed suit.

“What you said,” he mumbled, feeling suddenly out of breath.

“Ted called me yesterday in the evening and asked me a couple of questions. I realised I couldn’t answer them from London, so I asked if it was alright if I came to St. Mawes and saw for myself. Ted was so kind,” she smiled at the old man. “So I got up at four, took my Land Rover and got here just in time for your birthday!”

Strike took her hand and brought it to his lips.

“What were the questions about?”

“There was a question about Joanie’s earrings,” Ted answered. “Before you got up, Robin tried them on and said she’d think about it!”

“I’m taking them,” Robin said with confidence. “I just don’t know how to thank you.”

“If you answer positively to another question, it will be the best gratitude.”

Robin looked at Strike, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

“So, Strike, are we together or still messing around like two idiots?”

*

Before Robin arrived, Strike had been sure he’d need some time to recover mentally from the weekend he spent at his uncle’s. Now, as she was driving her Land Rover away from St. Mawes (with him in the passenger seat, his photo albums, photos, books and letters placed securely in the backseat) his heart felt incredibly light. He completed the mission his uncle had summoned him for. He promised himself he would visit Ted more often, with or without a reason. Most importantly, he had probably the biggest revelation of his life, and his partner, his best friend, the love of his life was by his side when he made the ultimate decision. He wasn’t letting her go. Not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and I'm so relieved that Strike's birthday DID fall on a weekend in 2014!
> 
> I hope this ending doesn't look too forced *fiercely blushes*
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, leaving the most wonderful comments and supporting me thoughout this four-chapter ride!


End file.
